Let me ask you something. While other people like to kick off their day with a bike ride or a healthy run, you ever try hitchhiking? How about hitchhiking on any of L.A.’s innumerable and notorious freeways (notorious for being umpteen lanes wide and still being easy to clog up, and for somehow subliminally inviting people in their beat-up hatchbacks to move to the center lane just before their car stalls)? You ever have a week where the work was nonstop, even dangerous at times, so that by Friday you were positively numb with fatigue? And then Friday morning start off a gorgeous Southern California day by thumbing it along the Ventura Freeway?
With even the tiniest modicum of luck, you can answer the above paragraph with a bold-faced no. Our man Jellwagger, on the other hand, as you’ve no doubt gleaned over the past ten episodes, somehow manages to stay out of the way of good luck. The poor fucker’s never had much luck, going all the way back to his days as a wee Jellwagger growing up in the Garden State. You take his father for instance. All Jellwagger ever wanted out of the old man was for him to call his son Jellwagger like everyone else. Calling him Michael always reminded Jellwagger of his grandmother, and he didn’t want to be reminded of his grandmother if she wasn’t around. But the old man never did. Never, until the day a massive coronary dropped him like a sack of Jersey peaches. Least that was the way Jo told it. According to her, she was in the backyard of the family home while Dad was in the kitchen. In fact, he was having a peach. And just before she heard the clump of his body hitting the linoleum, he cried out, “Jellwagger!” Again, this was Jo’s version of events. To this day Jellwagger’s always argued with himself over whether to buy it wholesale or take it with a boulder-sized piece of salt.
With even the tiniest modicum of luck, you can answer the above paragraph with a bold-faced no. Our man Jellwagger, on the other hand, as you’ve no doubt gleaned over the past ten episodes, somehow manages to stay out of the way of good luck. The poor fucker’s never had much luck, going all the way back to his days as a wee Jellwagger growing up in the Garden State. You take his father for instance. All Jellwagger ever wanted out of the old man was for him to call his son Jellwagger like everyone else. Calling him Michael always reminded Jellwagger of his grandmother, and he didn’t want to be reminded of his grandmother if she wasn’t around. But the old man never did. Never, until the day a massive coronary dropped him like a sack of Jersey peaches. Least that was the way Jo told it. According to her, she was in the backyard of the family home while Dad was in the kitchen. In fact, he was having a peach. And just before she heard the clump of his body hitting the linoleum, he cried out, “Jellwagger!” Again, this was Jo’s version of events. To this day Jellwagger’s always argued with himself over whether to buy it wholesale or take it with a boulder-sized piece of salt.
Either way, his luck wasn’t improving during the shining dawn of what promised to be a glorious and postcard-perfect Friday. There he was, our man Jellwagger, hitchhiking along the shoulder of the westbound side of the Ventura Freeway. For most of the first hour he walked backward with his thumb out, like he’d always seen it in cartoons back in Jersey, but no go. It wasn’t that not many cars were out. In L.A. there never really is a quiet period on the freeways, but he had to admit to himself that just about all these people were on their way to work. In the cartoons the protagonist, the rabbit or the bird or whatever, would be out in East Bumblefuck somewhere where the only drivers would be people with a ton of time on their hands. Again, in L.A. on a weekday morning, no one had any time on their hands. And Jellwagger could relate, which is why he finally dropped his thumb and turned around and picked up the pace.
His Timex Indiglo had read six when he left Azure’s. It was around eight when he finally reached the transition to the northbound Hollywood Freeway. He knew from his years living in the Valley that he had another five miles between him and his dingbat in Van Nuys. That would cost him another couple of hours. He’d be hopelessly late for work, and if there’s one place that doesn’t forgive tardiness easily, it’s a law firm like Powell and Powler. No, Jellwagger had no choice but to head straight to the North Hollywood subway station. While that was much closer, it still wasn’t close enough that Jellwagger would get to work on time if he stuck with the walking.
Just as he broke out into a run, Carla’s voice squawked from the walkie-talkie cell phone in his pocket. “You there, bitch?” He thought about huffing it as fast as he could and worrying about her temper later, but her saying, “I’ll feed your balls to the L.A. River if you don’t answer me, Jellwagger!” sort of put a damper on that plan. Jellwagger slowed but still maintained a speedy walk while pulling out the cell.
“Your fucking whore for hire left me out in the cold,” he said. “Literally!”
For a few seconds there was silence. What the hell was she trying to pull here?
“Carla! If you don’t answer me, I’ll sick Chump on your overpriced ass!”
Again, silence. But then he heard something. It was… No fucking way. The bitch was laughing at him. “Chump?” She chuckled some more.
“Yeah, Chump E. Chips, he’s known to take no prisoners. What’s so God damned funny?” One good thing about Carla’s making him incensed was that it pushed his legs to start running again.
“That Snoopy wannabe runs away from his own tail.”
“How could you possibly know anything about someone you’ve never met?” The exit for Magnolia was coming up. He decided to get off here. It was half past eight. He’d have to head east to Lankershim Blvd., swing a left there, and run his guts out until he reached the NoHo Red Line station up near Burbank Blvd.
“Someone I’ve never met? Jellwagger, it’s a dog for Christ’s sake. Why do you talk about it—?”
The rest of her words were drowned by the SUV blasting its horn right behind him. While it was good that his indignation provided him the extra energy to huff it, it also distracted him from where exactly he was in relation to the traffic. While heading down the exit ramp to Magnolia, he’d unknowingly drifted out into the center. The well-dressed middle-aged man behind the wheel kept his hand on the horn even as Jellwagger stumbled back to the shoulder. He almost lost his balance once, recovered, but then fell flat on his face in the shrubbery. His face was mostly spared, but the dry twigs did a number on his hands and arms while he tried to break the fall. That of course meant he had to let go of the cell phone. It flew several feet away. Jellwagger would’ve spent a lot of valuable time looking for it had Carla’s cackling not rang so loud and clear from it. “What the hell are you doing, bitch?” she called as he picked her up.
Jellwagger felt sick. What the hell was he doing here? He’d look like shit when he got to work. Friday was dress-down day, but the way he looked now wasn’t exactly what they had in mind when they came up with that little perk. He was starving, he was sleep-deprived, his arms were scratched up and down, the scratches on his palms were throbbing, and he’d been rendered a puppet by this fucking redhead laughing at him while she pulled the strings.
Jellwagger resumed his jog in spite of the cramp tearing apart his midsection and his heart beating itself up against his ribs and the nausea creating a hurricane in his stomach. His hand trembled as he lifted the cell to his mouth. Carla must’ve sensed it because he couldn’t get a word out before she said, “Look, Jellwagger. Are you listening?” Her voice was much calmer. She wasn’t laughing anymore. In fact, she almost sounded like she kinda sorta cared for him.
“Yes,” he said.
“What’s the matter?”
“Your whore drove me to Azure’s, which means my car’s back home. I thought Azure was a nice woman. Until she said no to driving me home. For the past three hours I’ve been walking and running across two freeways. I have no time to get home. I’m going to be late. Fuck! I’m going to be late!”
“I don’t care about Azure being nice. That’s not why I pay her the big bucks. Did she teach you how to fuck?”
“I hate how you talk about things.”
“Are you a man now?”
He was running up Lankershim. “Why do you do this to me, Carla? What did I do to you?”
“Nothing really,” she said. “If you don’t count stalking.”
“I didn’t hurt you. I was never going to hurt you. I’m not like that.”
“Obviously not. You’re a pussy. You’re afraid you might kick your own ass.”
“So why…?” He didn’t have the energy for this, not to speak of the oxygen. All he wanted was to shove the cell back in his pocket and get going in earnest. Best just to let the tyrant say what she needed to say.
Carla sighed. “I can see that my being a royal pain in your skinny ass hasn’t done either jack or shit in terms of teaching you a lesson. You. Stalked. Me. For two weeks, dude. You know how fucked up that is? I don’t care how well meaning you are. You want to ask a woman out, you don’t fucking stalk her. How could I have known at the time that during one of those nights while you sat out in your piece of shit car, you wouldn’t decide to get out and hide in the bushes with a knife and do an O.J. on me? It’s only because of hindsight that it’s clear you don’t have the nutsack for something like that. But you see, that’s the problem, Jellwagger. The clarity of hindsight can blind you from learning your lesson. If you run a mile in my moccasins, you’d see how weird it is to have some skinny nerdy-looking law firm data entry clerk stalk you every night for two God damned weeks. It doesn’t take much imagination to see that. You there?”
He thought about not answering. “Barely,” he said.
“The main reason I called was to see that you got the package.”
“Sure.”
“You have to give it to Rosamund Powler in person. Don’t give it to her secretary. Don’t leave it on her desk if she’s not there. Deliver it to her personally.”
“Whatever.”
“And do it today.”
“Fine.”
“I’m serious, Jellwagger.”
“Fine.” And there it was. About a half-mile away loomed the Metro signage with its ubiquitous white M. Jellwagger never thought he’d be so happy to see it. He seriously thought he might kick the bucket the way his dad did, judging by how furiously his heart was pumping right now. Carla was barely audible over the thundering in his ears.
“Let me know when it’s done,” was the last thing she said.
Jellwagger didn’t even have the strength to pocket the cell at this point. He kept it clutched in his hand while staggering for the final block. A huge crowd was crossing over Lankershim from the Orange line bus stop to the subway station. It was approaching nine o’clock. He’d be able to catch the nine o’clock train and get to the office by nine-thirty, perhaps even a few minutes earlier. Sitting on the subway would allow the sweat he was bathing in to dry while his heart calmed down.
When he sat down, the sudden heaviness of his eyes made him afraid he’d fall asleep all the way to the end of the line, making this hellhole of a morning in vain. A well-dressed Latina sat next to him. If his appearance freaked her out, she didn’t show it. Jellwagger didn’t have the energy to let the subtext fester and feed his discomfort. He said, “It’s been a rough morning. But the good thing is the rest of the day can’t possibly be as bad.”
She smiled at him. If Jellwagger didn’t feel so sick to his stomach and anxious about how he was going to deliver this little package, he might’ve appreciated this woman’s cuteness a little more.
“I haven’t slept all night. If you and I were in a bar, I’d gladly tell you why. Of course then you’d think I was hitting on you. I wouldn’t, I promise. I see the ring. And I’ve always believed you never mow another man’s lawn. As it is, what I do want to say is please make sure I don’t fall asleep. How far are you going?”
“Seventh and Metro.”
“Perfect! That’s my stop. If I’m sleeping when we get there, could you just elbow me or something?”
“Sure.”
Thank the Maker for Jellwagger’s heads-up move. The train barely started moving when he conked out. Instead of elbowing him, the woman whispered in his ear, which turned out to be more effective. He jerked his head up with a start and blushed heavily when he realized that not only had he spent the last twenty minutes with his head on the woman’s shoulder, but he’d drooled on her blouse. He apologized profusely as they squeezed through the crowds and up the escalator. The Latina’s glowing smiles and reassurances that it was no big deal did nothing to cool the heat on Jellwagger’s face. Judas Priest, how could he have been so clumsy? And with a gorgeous Latina of all people?
They went their separate ways on Figueroa. Jellwagger wanted to run to the Sanwa Bank building and hide in his cubicle as quickly as possible, but his legs were killing him. His quads throbbed, and the shin splints were merciless. You have to understand. Our man normally didn’t exert himself beyond walking to and from his car and the train and the recliner and the kitchen. The last time he’d run any considerable distance… Jellwagger slowed down as he thought about that. Holy shit, could it have been that long ago? High school gym class? He hadn’t taken any phys ed classes in college. Physical fitness had been his mortal enemy for as long as he could remember. Even now he winced at how foolish he’d felt year in and year out, at the beginning and end of the year, when he’d have to try to do chin-ups, and every single time he wouldn’t be able to do any. Ever. Not one time in his scholastic career had Jellwagger done a chin-up. Nor run a mile in less than ten minutes.
This flood of embarrassing high school memories did nothing to dampen his blushing, and it distracted him from walking fast. Look at all these well-dressed people walking in the shadows of the office towers. They didn’t have a clue who he was, nor how much of an idiot he’d made of himself nearly twenty years ago. Why should he still let all that crap bother him?
Jellwagger wrestled with the illogic of feeling shameful about something that happened so long ago to the point that he lost track of his progress to the Sanwa Bank building. He was there before he knew it. Because of the steady stream of others coming in, as well as those coming out for their first smoke break, he knew he wouldn’t have the time to stop and collect himself. So with about twenty feet to go to the glass doors, he closed his eyes, took several deep breaths, and slowed down a little so he wouldn’t bump into the older and very smart-looking and no doubt important brunette in front of him. The walk from the Metro station had done his legs good. By the time he walked through the doors, he was once again over the past and, for the most part, physically pain free. He smiled and waved at Dathan, the dayshift security guard. “Happy Friday!” they said to each other as they always did.
Jellwagger stopped in the lobby and looked at the café. Sure, a line may have been spilling out of it, but the thought of another one of those massive Americanos sounded so good right now. Then a flashback to his humiliation in front of the barista threatened to douse his face with more redness, which was all he needed to keep high-tailing it to the elevator bank. A set of doors was just about to close when he got there. He wasn’t in the mood to fight his way into another crowd and so stood there waiting for the doors to close so he could press the up button.
“Come on, there’s still room!” a woman said.
Jellwagger didn’t feel like looking at her, but judging by her voice, she was around his age. When he squeezed himself into the nook right behind the doors, he saw her in the corner of his eye. Damn, yet another hottie. And there were more around her. Although he never looked directly at them, he was fairly certain none of them worked at Powell and Powler. At any rate, at least all he had to do was stand still. There was no way he could possibly screw this up.
After maybe five seconds, Jellwagger farted. And no, it wasn’t the silent but violent variety, but the kind that rips. Granted, it was short and not very loud, but even quiet can seem deafening in such a confined space. Bottom line: Jellwagger’s bowels loosened and expelled gas against his will because he was simply too exhausted to pucker his brown eye. No one said anything at first. A man behind him cleared his throat. Jellwagger looked over at the buttons and saw that no one was getting off until the thirty-fifth floor. His stop was the forty-second.
The smell hit around the twenty-fifth floor. Someone, maybe the same guy who cleared his throat, said, “Aw Jesus Christ!” Several other people smirked. One or two couldn’t suppress all-out laughter. Jellwagger closed his eyes.
At the forty-first floor, the doors swished open, and that same guy cleared his throat again, only much louder and closer. On his way out, he bumped Jellwagger’s shoulder and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, the rudest little prick in the entire building. Have a swell day, asshole!”
The silence weighed a ton after the doors closed, but his was the next floor. When he stepped off on forty-two, he found none other than his boss Betsy Seth follow him out. “Good morning, Michael,” she said with a smile, looking at him briefly before heading on her way. Just as the doors closed, Jellwagger looked back and saw Stu Dobkins pressed into the back corner of the elevator, his beady eyes, made all the more so by his glasses, glued to the floor number display above the buttons. He’d be getting off on the next floor. The few remaining others were looking at the carpet.
Betsy’s office was in the same general direction as Jellwagger’s cubical, so he had no choice but to walk with her. Neither of them said anything at first. Betsy did things like check her watch and her cell and her hair bun and various other things that distracted her from the silence. When they reached the point in the corridor where their routes diverged, Jellwagger took a deep breath, a deep swallow, and said: “I’m sorry, okay?”
She looked over her shoulder at him and at first didn’t stop because apparently she didn’t think he’d been addressing her. When she saw him staring straight at her, she stopped and fiddled with one of her earrings. “Everything okay, Michael?”
“Are you being sarcastic?”
She noticed his arms.
“Before you ask, I fell in some bushes,” he said. “Walking to the subway station. I know I look like shit. I got no sleep last night. I’m sorry for peeling off a stink bomb in the elevator. I’m just…” His eyes welled up in spite of himself. He looked at the ceiling before closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. “This is so fucked up.” When he opened them again, Betsy was standing right in front of him. She put a hand on his arm. It was warm. He wanted to hug her so bad.
“Why don’t you take the day off?”
He laughed. The absurdity of the suggestion was just the thing he needed to nip the cry in the bud. “Fuck to the no. I’ve got so much to do today. Well, not more than usual. But it’s important. I have to be here.”
“Seriously?” she said. “I’m racking my brain here. What could I have given Grant to give you that’s so important?”
God damn, she was gorgeous. Just look at her. Even on dress-down Fridays, with her Dodgers shirt with the three-quarter baseball sleeves and the midnight-blue jeans and sandals, even with her thick black mane pulled taut with a clip at the back, she managed to look classy, elegant, and stunning. “I can’t believe I farted in front of you,” he said before laughing harder.
She cracked a smile, but her eyes didn’t lose the frown.
“It’s nothing specific, Betsy. I’m behind. That’s all. If I take a sick day, Judas Priest can only imagine the stack that’ll be waiting for me on Monday.”
“You’re not a doctor, Jellwagger. It’s just data entry.”
“I resent that remark.”
“And hey.” She slapped him playfully on the arm. “Don’t worry about the fart. I won’t count it against you on your next focal. You’ve had a shitty week, Jellwagger. It’s written all over you. All I can say is welcome to the human race. I doubt this is your first week from hell. And you can bet the house it won’t be the last. Just wait till you have a shitty month.”
“Or fuck it,” he said. “Why not go for broke and trash the whole year?”
She looked about to smile before her countenance straightened. “Don’t even joke about that.” Damn, was there ever a moment when she didn’t look like she was studying his soul? As long as Jellwagger had worked for her, he couldn’t think of a time when she didn’t look at him with her head tilted slightly. It somehow magnified her professional demeanor, which he had to assume she knew and that’s why she did it. But couldn’t she loosen the fuck up for casual morning banter? “I’ve had entire years from hell. Not a good feeling when you reach the holidays and think to yourself that, while the Chinese have been celebrating the Year of the Chicken or the Year of the Hamster, you’ve been having the Year of Suck.”
Jellwagger couldn’t help smirking. Betsy’s face remained steely. “Wow,” he said. “So you’re talking from experience, I take it?” She maintained her soul-piercing look. “Stupid question. Well gee, Betsy, I hope this year isn’t one of those years.”
“I mean listen, Michael.” She crossed her arms, took a couple steps closer, and lowered her voice. “You’re worried about farting in the elevator. A few scratches on your arms. Smelling like shit. Those are your problems. I could give you problems that would make you pine for these days.”
“Fuckin’ A, Betsy,” Jellwagger said. “What are you trying to do? Hey I know. You know what you need? A tall ice-cold one.” He was bullshitting at this point, but he had to deflate her solemnity somehow. He was too fucking tired for yet another adult to put him in his place. “Someday I’ll treat us to a few rounds and you can tell me all about the Year of Suck. Cool?”
“Once again, be careful what you say. I just might take you up on that offer.”
“There is no better place to vent than a bar. Am I right or am I right?”
“I could vent, and you could continue gaining perspective. Which, no offense, you obviously need.”
“And no offense to you, madam, but you don’t even know a fraction of it. Between the two of us, we could vent the exhaust out of a space shuttle.”
She laughed. God damn, were her teeth perfect or what? She slapped his arm again. “You have a good day, Michael. And seriously, if you want to bail, shoot me and Grant an e-mail and get out of here.”
Before heading to his cubicle, Jellwagger took a detour to the break room and filled up three Styrofoam cups full of the Starbucks Verona to take back to his desk. This was the heavy stuff, stronger than he was used to. He almost always opted for the Breakfast Blend, and he only needed one cup at a time at that. He’d normally take his Pulp Fiction mug and nurse three or so cups by lunch time.
Today, as you’ve no doubt already discerned, was no ordinary day. Our man was literally nodding off on his feet. Blackouts on the subway and uncontrollable farts on the elevator weren’t things he was used to. So to fuck with the Breakfast Blend. Today was the day to bring in the big guns, and umpteen cups at a time if possible.
When he plopped himself down at his desk, he slurped his way through the entire first cup before turning on his PC. As soon he was logged in, by which time he’d slurped his way through half of the second cup, he checked his e-mail to confirm that Grant had nothing pressing for him.
Jellwagger hopped onto the database to look up Rosamund Powler’s record. When it popped up on the screen, he knew he’d’ve been floored unconscious if he hadn’t had two cups of coffee in him. Check this out.
Rosamund Powler was pushing ninety. Double eights, to be exact. She’d been working at the firm since she co-founded it over sixty years ago. Her area of practice was trusts and estates. Before you yawn, hold on a sec. Lawyers can do a lot with trusts and estates. At least Rosamund Powler could. Of the one hundred plus attorneys in this firm, a good chunk of them worked in the same area. Being an octogenarian didn’t mean she couldn’t chair that group either. Right there at the top it said she was Chair of Trusts, Estates & Personal Planning Practice Group.
Scanning her record, Jellwagger reminded himself that he had inputted all that stuff. He had to have done so. This firm didn’t have a database until he showed up. The more he read, the more he gulped. It said she provided “estate planning and tax advice to high-net-worth individuals, executives, entrepreneurs and owners of closely held businesses. Advises charitable organizations on the establishment and operation of a planned charitable giving program. Counsels clients in the area of asset protection and the creation of offshore asset-protection vehicles, vital parts of estate planning for high-net-worth individuals, executives, and entrepreneurs. Past chair of the taxation committee of the Los Angeles Bar Association's Probate Section. Lectures frequently in the areas of wills, trusts, and estate planning, with a focus on reducing or eliminating federal estate taxes. Included in The Best Lawyers in America, based on a peer-review survey in which more than 1.8 million individual evaluations are reviewed.”
By this time Jellwagger’s bowels were on the offensive again. They, like he, couldn’t believe he was going to take on this woman. But wait. That wasn’t all. Look at this shit: “Notably, Ms. Powler recently represented a client in a record-setting auction sale of a rare pre-revolutionary pie-crust table attributed to the Garvan carver, which dates back to the early 1760s. Auctioned by Christie’s, the antique table sold for more than $6.7M.”
Jesus Christ, a pie-crust table? A cool $6.7 million? And she was doing all this shit while approaching goddam ninety? He pulled out the little package Azure had given him. The flaming red wrap gleamed and glistened in the fluorescent light. He shook it slightly, not too hard lest he break whatever it was and land himself in even deeper shit with Carla. He couldn’t hear a thing. After shaking it a bit harder, he still didn’t hear anything. Plus, it was light as a feather. That’s when it occurred to him that, knowing Carla, the frickin’ little thing was probably empty.
Jellwagger sat back as Carla’s plan, which should’ve seemed so obvious before, flooded his beleaguered noodle. The bitch was setting him up to get canned. Check it out. Our man would go up to Powler, give her the little box with some bullshit explanation, she’d open it, see it was empty, and tell HR or whoever to get rid of this bony bozo. Now why would Carla do that? Obvious. She wanted him to be her full-time lackey. Like she said that morning, she didn’t think Jellwagger appreciated enough the gravity of how he’d inconvenienced her by parking outside her house every night for two weeks. Okay so it was a boneheaded move. Beyond boneheaded. In fact, the more he considered that whole fiasco with the blinding clarity of 20/20 hindsight, the more he wanted to plant his foot in his own ass for being such a fucking weirdo.
What was Carla talking about? Of course he understood the stupidity of what he’d done. But then again, how was he supposed to prove that to her? How was he supposed to quantify his feelings? Wait a second. He worked in a law firm. Surely there was one lawyer in this firm who could find a way to somehow prove that Jellwagger was contrite enough and repentant enough to be let off the hook. Yes! That’s how he’d beat the bitch. She wanted to play hardball? She’d just messed with the wrong Jellwagger. You don’t mess with a guy who works in a firm overflowing with lawyers.
Jellwagger polished off his third coffee before deciding he couldn’t hold back the flood any longer. His bowels and bladder were screaming at him. He breathed a sigh of relief when he walked into the can and found it empty. The last thing he needed was to pollute someone’s soul with the stink tsunami he was about to unleash upon the world. He parked himself in the clean, spacious handicap stall and took care of business.
A few minutes later, still parked on the seat and reveling in the relief, something occurred to him. He pulled out his cell and got Carla on the horn. “You tell me what this is or there’s no way I’m taking it to her.”
“No deal,” Carla said. “Take it to her or else. Bye.”
“Wait!”
No answer.
“Bitch!” He dialed her again. “If you don’t tell me what this is, not only will I not give it to her, but you can forget about me being your little bitch from now on.”
“Okay then, Jellwagger. As soon as I hang up, I’ll be calling the cops to report a stalker. It’s your word against mine. And I’ve got witnesses.”
“You’re a fucking madam for Christ’s sake. You’re telling me the cops would believe someone like you versus someone like me who earns an honest living and doesn’t try blackmailing people?”
“Asked the stalker.”
“Fuck you, Carla.”
“Later, gator.”
“Bullshit!”
No answer.
Jellwagger made to throw the thing against the pristine tanned walls but pulled his arm back just in time. After a few deep breaths, he dialed again.
“Third time the charm, bitch?” she said.
“Okay look.” He winced.
“It’s going to kill you to say it, so get it over with,” she said.
“I’m sorry.”
“That’s better!”
“Sorry I threatened to call the cops.”
“Somehow, someway, I knew you weren’t going to do it. Call me crazy.”
“Why won’t you tell me what’s in the package? Seriously, Carla. I can’t afford to lose my job. I’m living paycheck to paycheck as it is. If you want me to work for you fulltime, you need to pay me.” He started hyperventilating as the ramifications of what she was asking started to hit home. “Carla, if I can’t… If I don’t have enough to pay my rent, then I may as well move back to Jersey right now. And then where will that leave you?”
“Relax, dude. I’m not going to let that happen to you. I can’t lose you now, Jellwagger. You’re so useful to me.”
“This could be a bomb for all I know. Or shit, I dunno, it might unleash poisonous gas.”
“Why would I try to get you in deep shit when you’re in enough of it as it is?”
“Exactly! You see? According to you, I’m already as good as in jail, so I have nothing left to lose. Why not get the doomed man to do your dirty work?”
“Fuck me. You know what? At some point common sense and logic are going to have to become part of the conversation. Jellwagger! I’m not setting you up for a fall, okay? And I’m certainly no killer. I should kick your skinny ass for saying that.”
“Is it empty?”
“Is what empty? The box? What, you think I’d have you give a gift to Rosamund Powler that has nothing in it? What did I just say about common sense and logic?”
“Wait a second. Hold on a God damned second. Do you know Rosamund Powler?”
“Do you?”
“I’ve never met her in my life. Now answer the question.”
Carla was silent for a long moment before answering. “Tell you what. Here’s what you do. Go to her office and give it to her. Right? Not her secretary. Don’t leave it on her desk. I want you. To give it. To her. She’ll ask you what it is. Say you don’t know. That should be easy since you don’t. Just say you know someone who’s an admirer of hers but wants to stay anonymous and they told you to give that to her on their behalf. Okay? And then get on the horn and tell me that it’s done. The whole thing should take what? A minute? A fucking minute of your life, Jellwagger. And then I’ll leave you alone for the weekend. How’s that?”
Before he could stop it, Jellwagger’s bowels expelled another burst of air much longer and louder than in the elevator.
“Jesus Christ! Are you calling me from another bathroom? Jellwagger, what is it with you? This is the second time!”
“I can’t apologize, Carla. It’s nature. When she calls, voicemail isn’t an option.”
“Seriously, this doesn’t strike you as weird at all? Calling someone while taking a dump? That’s not weird to you?” Her sigh turned into a laugh. “Sometimes I really worry about you. I do. It’s like… I can’t figure you out. Usually I’m a good people reader, but you? On the one hand you’re so girly and scared all the time. When I see a guy as bony as you, I think gay. I know that’s terrible, but I’ve got my fair share of gay guy friends, and for the most part they’re trim. But then just when I think you’re a girl, you go ahead and do things dumb straight guys do, like call someone while taking a shit. And then there’s your insatiable appetite for beer.”
“Oh yes!”
“See?” She laughed. “Most gay guys I know are like my girlfriends. They like wine. Or cosmos. Sounds terrible, doesn’t it? I’m stereotyping the shit out of everybody, but those stereotypes exist for a reason.”
Carla didn’t sound heartless at all now. This had happened before. Jellwagger would start a conversation with her from a confrontational angle. They’d go at each other like a couple of lions. And then before he knew it, she would somehow defuse the situation so that they’d end up bantering back and forth like a couple of drinking buddies. That reminded him of the open invitation he now had with Betsy. A sudden flash of inspiration hit him. “Hey you know what, Carla? Speaking of beer? You and I should have a drink sometime. Seriously. Nothing weird. You can bring Neckman if he makes you feel safe. But I’m guessing your life’s more complicated than mine. Right? That’s probably why you don’t feel too sorry for me. You see what I go through and wish you could have my problems instead of whatever shit you’re dealing with now. Sometimes venting in a bar over a couple drinks can really help.”
She was once again quiet for a few seconds. “You’ve got a job to do, Jellwagger. You better go do it. And rest up this weekend. You think this week was a bitch? You ain’t seen nothing.”
Jellwagger nodded to himself. Perhaps it had been too much to hope for.
“And bitch? I don’t need anyone protecting me.” She hung up.
It was around eleven when Jellwagger got back to his desk. At first he thought it was too close to lunchtime to worry about the package now. For all he knew, Powler took her lunch breaks earlier than he did, and by the time she came back, he’d be on his break. So best to wait until one-thirty or so, after he’d come back. Right? But wait. Today was Friday. Sometimes people only work half-days on Friday, especially the important people who run the show. So if he waited until after lunch, she could be gone and who knew what kind of hell Carla would subject him to then?
Aw fuck. He really was going to have to do this now, wasn’t he?
Powell and Powler, LLP took up five floors of the Sanwa Bank building, forty-two to forty-six. And yes, you could pretty much judge the importance of people by which floor they worked on. Case in point: Jellwagger was on forty-two. In all his time here, he’d never been to any other floor, even just to visit. His cubicle, Grant’s cubicle, Betsy’s office, the break room, and the can. Those were the five spots Jellwagger’s job required of him. Whatever happened on forty-three and above had never concerned him. Similarly, as far as the attorneys went, the lower floors were associate heavy while the partners were mostly on forty-five and -six. He only knew any of this, by the way, because of Betsy. As head of the firm’s marketing department, her network of contacts extended throughout the firm. She knew everyone. Rarely did a day go by when she didn’t have to pay a visit to at least one or two of the other floors.
Maybe Jellwagger should see her first to get the lowdown on Rosamund Powler.
Nah, he didn’t want to risk her inquiring why he wanted to know. No more excuses. Rosamund Powler worked up on forty-six. That’s all he needed to know. He looked up the office floor plans on the firm’s intranet to see how to get to her office from the elevators, and then he was off.
When he stepped off the elevator on forty-six, his first impression was that it looked exactly like forty-two, down to the carpet, the lamps, the magazines on the coffee table, the rubber plants in the corners, and the reception desk. Sitting behind the desk was a gorgeous blonde he vaguely recognized from a company function a while back. She was on the phone and didn’t even acknowledge our man as he walked by.
Powler’s office was in the corner where Betsy’s office was located on forty-two, but with one big difference. Betsy didn’t have a secretary sitting at a huge desk next to the west-facing window. Before Jellwagger could see the secretary, he saw the nameplate: Ignio Peppercorn. A few more steps and Jellwagger saw him. Dressed in a crisp charcoal suit, Rosamund Powler’s secretary was a tall, polished, clean-shaven, and physically fit Latino. Jellwagger caught a whiff of Old Spice.
And there was the closed door with the name Rosamund Powler on the wall beside it. It looked no different than any of the other nameplates.
“Can I help you, sir?” Ignio had stopped in the middle of running his fingers along the tops of file folders.
Jellwagger opened his mouth to speak only to discover his throat was dry. He swallowed and cleared his throat before nodding at the door. “Is she in?”
“I’m afraid she’s in a meeting at the moment. Would you like to leave a message?”
“I just need to give her something.”
“You can leave it with me.”
Although Ignio didn’t have any gray in his slicked back hair, his face did betray an age Jellwagger guessed to be north of forty. He had probably been working for Rosamund Powler for at least ten years, if not much longer. Jellwagger would have to be sure to check the database when he got back to his desk. “Actually, I have to give it to her in person.”
“What is it?”
“Gosh, I’m not sure. It’s not really from me.”
“Who’s it from?”
“An admirer. Do you know when she’ll be available?”
“This meeting won’t be over for another hour, then she has her lunch hour, and then another meeting after that. Let’s see…” He rolled his chair to the other side of his workstation and slid his finger down a sprawling appointment book. “I’m sorry, sir. She doesn’t have a free moment until four-fifteen. From four-fifteen to four-thirty she’s available. Whether or not she uses that time in her office or for an unscheduled conference is always a question mark. You can come back at that time and see if you can catch her.”
“So she’s not taking a half-day or anything?” Jellwagger said.
Ignio froze and stared at Jellwagger for a few interminable seconds before a small smile cracked the side of his mouth. “Half….day, sir?” It sounded painful for him to say it. “What’s your name?”
“Jellwagger.”
“And you’ve been working here…?”
“Far, far too long.”
“Well. Mr. Jellwagger. Rosamund Powler hasn’t missed a single day of work in her life. She founded this firm over sixty years ago. And hasn’t missed a day since. That includes half-days. Half-day isn’t part of her lexicon.”
“Sorry, don’t buy it.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Come on, Ignio. I work with the database, I know how old she is. You’re saying that in six decades the woman’s never had the sniffles? Never had a stomach bug? Never wanted to get away from it all? Come on! Forget me. When did you start working here? Scratch that. When were you born? Yesterday? Stuff like that doesn’t happen. People just like to make that claim. Who wouldn’t? But it’s impossible!”
Ignio’s smile became an all-out laugh. “No comment, sir. When you see her, if you see her, you can bring that up.” He laughed harder.
Jellwagger was too tired for this shit. He was supposed to come back up here at four-fucking-fifteen and hope he’d catch her before four-thirty?
“I’m sorry, did you say the package was from a client of Ms. Powler’s?”
“No, an admirer.”
“I don’t follow.”
“It’s a gift from someone who admires the woman. Get it? Sheesh. And stop calling it a package. It’s just a small gift. Someone wants to thank the woman for being the woman she is. What can I say? Just when you think all the people on this planet are rotten, along comes someone who commits a random act of kindness. Try not to faint.”
Ignio was laughing more easily now. Then he frowned at Jellwagger and said: “What was your name?”
“Jellwagger.”
“Is that your first name or last name?”
“Neither.”
“Wait a second…”
“Okay fine, I’ll tell you.” He sighed. “If you can think of a word stronger than exhausted, please let me know. Because that’s how I feel right now. Anyway, my name’s Michael Jellwag. But no one calls me Michael. Well, a few people do. But ninety-nine point nine percent of the human race calls me Jellwagger.”
Ignio scooted toward Jellwagger and held out his hand. “Ignio Peppercorn. Pleased to meet you, Jellwagger. No mister, right? Just Jellwagger?”
“So now that we’re cool, Ignio, can you give me the scoop?” He pulled out the gift. “I simply have to give this to your boss or I’m as good as a eunuch.”
“Just leave it with me, man,” Ignio said. “I won’t let her walk past me without giving it to her.”
“Yeah, that’s just it, Ignio. See, I have to give this to her in person. Don’t ask me why because you don’t want to know. I don’t want to know. I’m not really sure who that woman is.”
“What woman?”
“Anyway, I’m under strict orders to give this to Rosamund Powler in person by the end of today. By the way, what is she like?”
“Ms. Powler?” He thought for a moment before smiling and shaking his head. “You just have to meet her, man. It’s tough to come up with the words, you know? I mean, she’s tough and all. She has to be, but still, she’s…. You know.” He nodded.
“Uh, no. I don’t know.”
“She’s….human. A human being. It’s important to remember that.”
“So you’re saying it might be hard to remember when I meet her?”
Just then a man could be heard grunting in agony from the other side of Rosamund Powler’s door. Footsteps approached, the door swung open, and Jellwagger and Ignio were suddenly treated to front row seats of a show Jellwagger never could have dreamt he’d have the privilege of seeing for free.
In the open doorway stood a man in a black suit with his back to them, facing the inside of the huge corner office. From the other side of him Jellwagger saw the unmistakable figure of Rosamund Powler. He could only see one side of her face, but it was enough to recognize her from the database profile. She was much smaller than he expected, five-two or –three.
That was all Jellwagger could register before she made some kind of movement that he only knew after the fact was a punch because of the sound of fist against fat cheek followed by the black-suited man flying backward and landing at Ignio’s feet. Ignio reached down and helped him up, but that’s not what Jellwagger was looking at.
There in the doorway stood Rosamund Powler in all her never-been-sick glory. Her red hair seemed to glow. Sure, she had wrinkles, but Jellwagger would’ve guessed her to be maybe late sixties or early seventies, not borderline ninety. Her cream blouse, black slacks, and black shoes were very unassuming. Those tiny silver earrings and necklace were so plain and inconspicuous that Jellwagger wondered why she bothered. That’s when it occurred to him, taking her in while she stood with her hands on her hips directing an ice-cold grimace at the dude she’d just decked: She wore that exact same outfit every single day. He wasn’t sure how he knew, but he did. If you wanted to work every day of your life and have a hope of accomplishing what this woman had accomplished, you couldn’t be bothered with little things like vanity. Not that she needed to be concerned. This woman oozed so much energy that it was probably the energy itself that helped her keep a countenance belying her years. He’d never been into women old enough to be his great-grandmother, but he could still sort of imagine what she’d looked like at his age. Petite, flaming red hair she never let grow past her shoulders, fiery green eyes that glowed as much as the hair did, and a nice tight body that only stayed fit because she was on the go all the time. She had probably attracted more stares in her day than most but couldn’t’ve been bothered. She’d most likely landed her man while still in school, and whether or not he was the love of her life was immaterial. He was good enough to settle down with, and that’s all she needed because there were cases to get back to.
The man in the black suit brushed himself off but otherwise stood stock still next to Ignio. Had he even noticed Jellwagger? Probably not. He was too focused on the blazing fire in the doorway. His mouth hung open, his eyes were wide, and he panted. Dude looked braced for another attack.
Rosamund Powler took all of two steps out of her office, and that was all it took to make the man jump with a start. “Relax, pussy, I’m not going to hit you again,” she said. Like her face, her voice did sound like that of an old woman, but not as old as she really was, more like a sixtysomething who went to the gym regularly for kickboxing. A tough old broad. “Get out of here. You want to talk again? IM Ignio and he’ll set it up. But I want you to think good and God damned hard about what we talked about. If we meet again and you still haven’t come to your senses, then a punch to your fat spoiled face will be the least of your worries.”
The man didn’t move or otherwise make any indication that he’d heard the woman.
“What the fuck are you waiting for?” she asked. “Go!”
The man brushed himself off some more as he bumped shoulders with Jellwagger on his way down the corridor.
Powler turned to Ignio. “I’m taking lunch.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And it’ll be a long lunch. I’ve got nothing until one, right?”
“You got it.”
“Can’t stand short lunches. What’s the point?” She looked at Jellwagger. “’The fuck is he?”
“That, ma’am, is—”
“It’s okay,” Jellwagger cut in. “I’m not a deaf mute, I can answer for myself. My name’s Jellwagger.”
“You want to go to lunch?” she asked.
“You’re asking me?”
“Maybe you are a deaf mute.”
“Uhhhhh….”
“That’s a yes. Come on.” She marched past Jellwagger to the corridor that led to the elevators. Her candor combined with the fact that she hadn’t grabbed a purse or a jacket kept Jellwagger rooted to the spot while he mentally digested all of this. He looked at Ignio, who shrugged and gestured with an open hand in Powler’s direction.
“I wouldn’t keep her waiting if I were you,” he said when Jellwagger still hadn’t moved.
Jellwagger got to the lobby just as Powler was getting on the elevator. She made no sign that she was waiting for him. In fact, after pushing the ground floor button, she held her bony little finger on the close-door button. If Jellwagger hadn’t run, the doors would’ve closed on him.
She didn’t say anything on the way down. Ditto through the lobby. While they walked down Sixth St., Jellwagger was careful to face forward but couldn’t help taking the occasional peripheral glance. He wondered what, if anything, he would have thought about Rosamund Powler if he’d passed her on the street. If he didn’t know who she was, would he have thought anything? In the shadow of the office towers, heck, even in the shadow of the pedestrians, most of whom towered over her, she looked so puny.
They walked several blocks and Powler still hadn’t said anything, nor had she made the slightest indication she knew he was there.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
She didn’t answer but just kept on marching. When they got to Broadway, she swung a right. Now they were heading south, with the Los Angeles Theatre signage looming dead ahead. Just before they would have passed the theater, Powler swung a hard right into a pizza parlor that Jellwagger wouldn’t have noticed had he been on his own.
Just after walking in, she spun around and frowned at him. “You like pizza?”
“Sure.”
“What kind of answer is that?”
“Yes, I like pizza.”
She studied his face. “You’re not just saying that. Good, it’s on me. Get whatever the hell you want.” She was about to get in line before turning to him again. “And don’t get anything less than you normally would because you think you need to go easy on me. I’m not poor. Trying to go easy on someone just because they’re your elder is the mark of a pussy. Can’t stand pussies. Don’t you worry about my bank account.”
When it was their turn to order, Jellwagger got three slices of pepperoni and a large diet soda. Powler ordered herself a sausage, cheese, and jalapeño calzone with a bottle of water and took it all to go. “Can’t stand eating in tiny-ass parlors,” she said as they marched north on Broadway. “The tables are always too small. Chairs always leave a bruise on your ass. Don’t you agree?”
“Sure.”
“There you go again with that sure shit. That isn’t an answer. Can’t stand it when people don’t answer a simple yes or no question.”
“No, I don’t agree.”
“What was that?”
“I don’t agree with you. The tables aren’t too small for me and the chairs don’t bother my ass. They’re just plastic.”
“Better! Now you’re getting the hang of it. I’m a human being same as everyone else, there’s no reason you can’t be honest. That whole business about how people higher up than you like to be fed white lies is a lot of horse manure. Well, some of them do like it, I reckon, but I’m not one of them. Can’t stand people like that. If I ever catch one of the partners doing it, I kick their ass if I don’t fire ‘em. Sometimes I’ve been known to do both.”
“Seriously?”
They swung a left on Fifth. Neither of them said anything for a while. It wasn’t until they were parked on a bench in Pershing Square that Powler spoke again. Her tone was more level now. “This is better.”
Jellwagger wondered if he should say something about the benches being metal latticework. Not because he minded at all, but because he didn’t get why this was okay but plastic chairs were bad. The people sitting on the other benches and concrete shelves were a mixture of workers on their lunch break and the homeless. All of the homeless in the park had already scrounged enough money to afford a sandwich. Everyone in the park, homeless and professionals alike, sat around munching, chatting, and people watching.
Powler closed her eyes and breathed deeply. “Much better. I can never get tired of this city. Growing up in Rhode Island, I saw my fair share of snow storms. Ice storms. I’ve been living out here damned near seventy years, and I still don’t take the gorgeous weather for granted. The mountains. Everything.”
Jellwagger’s stomach growled at him to open his pizza box. The aroma was driving him nuts.
“I can tell you’re not from around here. And I can tell that you, like me, never get tired of seeing sunlight bathing the mountainsides in the Valley.”
He was afraid that if he started eating, it would break her concentration. She was staring at a fixed point in space. What could she be thinking about? With almost nine decades of memories racked up, how did she pick and choose what to reminisce about?
“That was my grandson.”
At first he looked around to see whom she was referring to. Then it occurred to him that she meant the guy she’d punched.
“Harry’s been an associate at the firm since he graduated,” she said. “I’ve never told him, but he’s a damn fine lawyer. Or I should say was. I never told him that.” She unwrapped her calzone and set to it while letting her eyes wander again.
When Jellwagger was halfway through his first slice, he said, “Why’d you fire him?”
“I didn’t.”
“So then…”
“Put it together, Jellwagger.”
It sounded weird, her saying his name, weird enough that his mind stumbled before figuring out what she meant. “Why’d he quit then?” he finally asked.
“He doesn’t want to be a lawyer,” she said. She took another bite and chewed for a bit before continuing. “Says he’s sick of it. Can’t stand it anymore. Only went to law school in the first place because he felt like his parents and me were pressuring him to. Which is total horse pucky, by the way. Only pressure he felt came from inside him. But what he took as pressure was really a drive to succeed. That’s the drive that got him through Harvard Law. Same drive that got me through the same school all those centuries ago.” She ate some more. “I don’t blame him entirely, though. His father, my beloved son, did his share of fucking up. Forgot to tell his boy not to be a pussy. Hey, being a lawyer isn’t a picnic in Griffith Park. It doesn’t take Alan Dershowitz to tell you that. Usually people know a little about the field by the time they have to make a decision to go to law school. Who doesn’t grow up encountering at least one lawyer on TV or in real life? Harry? He grew up in a family full of the fuckers. He must have had an idea of the demands. He can stand it. He just doesn’t have the constitution that it takes to show up at work every day.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?” he asked while munching on the crust of the first slice.
“If you can’t stand a job, then it doesn’t matter how tough you are. Harry’s confused. I know him better than you so don’t try to tell me. Can’t stand pussies. Just can’t stand them.” She resumed devouring her calzone.
Jellwagger was halfway through his second slice when he said, “Okay I have to ask. Do you normally beat the shit out of people?”
“Define normally.”
“Every day.”
“Shit no. I’m a tough bitch, but I’m not a nut. I make it a habit to associate with more associates than partners. You’d think I’d interact more with partners, right? Probably should, but I don’t. Can’t stand most of them. The associates take nothing for granted. They know they have to bust their ass. Harry? He was still an associate, but he was well on his way to being a partner. Only thing was he wanted to be a partner now. I was his grandma and I was running the firm, why couldn’t I just bump him up to partner?” She shook her head. “Stupid pussy. Within five minutes of promoting him, every single fucking lawyer in that stink hole would know what I’d done and that the only reason for it was nepotism. Mark my words, Jellwagger. If you ever find yourself as a leader…” She looked him up and down. “Which is doubtful, but if you do, you should know that nothing kills morale faster than nepotism. Harry got into Harvard on his own merits. He got hired here on his own merits. Why would I change that?” She polished off the rest of the calzone. “That was absolutely delicious. Those fat cats at Spago have it all wrong. The best food’s where you least expect it. I’ve never enjoyed anything at a so-called fine dining establishment the way I can savor a calzone. How’s your pizza?”
Jellwagger was just finishing off his second slice. “Good,” he said with his mouth full. “I’ve never met a slice I didn’t like.”
She took a swig of water. “Atta boy. I like a man with an appetite. And who’d’a thunk it? You’re one of the scrawniest men I’ve ever come across.”
While Jellwagger set to his third slice, Powler adjusted herself on the bench, sighed contentedly and, for the first time since he’d met her, smiled. A young professional couple walked by. The father was holding their toddler while the mother pushed an empty stroller. Powler watched them go by until they were out of sight. Whenever someone walked by, she would look at them until they looked at her so she could smile and nod and say hello.
As he polished off the third slice and washed it down with the diet soda, Jellwagger admitted to himself that this had been some of the best pizza he’d ever had. He meant it when he said he’d never met a bad slice, but just because he didn’t discriminate when it came to pizza didn’t mean he couldn’t discern a standout when he ate one. He’d have to go back to that place for sure. “It’s all about the sauce,” he said aloud without meaning to.
“Yes, my friend, it is,” Powler said. “And as you make your way through life, you’ll find that adage sums up a lot of things.”
“Goddam sauce,” Jellwagger said, sitting back and belching contentedly. “You would know all about that, madam, being literally triple my age.” He sucked down the rest of the diet soda until the straw made slurping noises.
Powler sat back and smiled and people watched. After Jellwagger tossed the cup into the trash, she turned to him abruptly. “I meant to ask you: Why diet soda?”
“I prefer beer, if you want to know the God’s honest truth.”
“My friend, there was a time when having a drink or two at lunch was not only socially acceptable, but downright normal. Now?” She threw up her hands. “Not that I partake that much. I still have the occasional Scotch, but I need to keep an eye on the old vices for reasons that I would think are painfully obvious.” She smiled and grunted a laugh. “Can’t stand getting old,” she mumbled.
“I used to be a fat motherfucker,” Jellwagger said. “Way back in the day. In the beforetimes. Before you were born, young one.”
She laughed. “I can’t picture that at all! You fat?”
“A lard ass worthy of that moniker.”
“Just how much lard are we talking about here?”
“About sixty pounds heavier than I am now. Mind you, that was when I was teenager. By the time I finished college, I’d dropped down to the hot model who sits before you.”
Powler scooted back a bit so she could get a better look at our man here. She squinted at him up and down as if she were taking in a most fascinating museum exhibit. “You’re not lying,” she finally said. “You really did lose sixty pounds.”
“Yes’m.”
“And you didn’t use any fad diet or any of that nonsense?”
Jellwagger affected an old man’s voice as he said, “They didn’t have fad diets back in my day. You had to stay in shape the old fashioned way: Diet and exercise.”
She laughed and slapped his arm. “Jellwagger, let me say how much I admire you for that.”
“High praise coming from someone of your immense stature.”
“Fuck stature. The reason I like taking a walk sometimes is so I can be a regular person again. That’s what we are right now. Two people chatting. And as one human being to another, I respect you for not feeling sorry for yourself, for recognizing your goal, and going after it come hell or high water. Believe me, as someone whose weight has taken me on a roller coaster ride for the past ninety years, I know of which I speak. That speaks volumes about your willpower and determination. What do you do for me again?”
“Data entry for marketing.”
“Ah, forty-two.”
“I resent that remark.”
“I mean it with the greatest respect. My firm wouldn’t exist without you. You’re the ones who don’t waste time bullshitting and just do the work. We need more of you.” She polished off the rest of the water, carefully put the cap back on, and got up to drop it in the can on the other side of Jellwagger. Then she stood over him with her hands on her hips and said, “Let’s go one more place. And then it’s back to the salt mines.”
They didn’t go far. She led him back in the direction of the office, but when they crossed over Flower St., still a block shy of the Sanwa Bank building, she turned and headed toward the intersection of Flower and Fifth. When they were still a good hundred feet or so from the corner, she stopped him and indicated an old building across the street that had been converted into condos. “Where it all started, my friend. The third floor. Powell and Powler. My husband was Mr. Powell. We met at Harvard. Whereas most of my family was in the law business—lawyers, cops, judges—Patrick Powell grew up poor. Well maybe not poor. But blue collar. His was one of those families that lived on the daddy’s paycheck. If the daddy went one week without a paycheck, that was one week where the family had to be creative about how they were going to put food on the table. Didn’t make it easier that Patrick was one of seven. Like you and your weight, Mr. Powell didn’t let anything stop him. He had that ironclad will to get done what needed to get done. Hence, top of his class. Harvard Law. You know the rest.”
“Actually I don’t.”
“A brilliant, brilliant man.”
“And you guys came out here and set up shop in that building, eh? Awesome. A couple of whiz kids. Young, attractive, smarter ‘n shit. Ms. Powler, you two must have intimidated the shit out of everyone.”
She laughed. “I had a tough time making friends, it’s true,” she said. “Not him, though. He could charm the leggings off a troll.”
“Man, I’ve never heard that expression before in my life. You are old.”
“Most of my social contacts were through him. But you know, in my time, it wasn’t unusual for the wife to make contacts through her husband’s social circle. And besides, I was too busy helping to run the firm and raise our kids.” She smiled and grunted another laugh. “We ran the whole operation on just that one floor for years. Mr. Powell, myself, a few others. It took a long time before we could justify expanding to another floor. Since then, it’s never been the same. My God, he was a brilliant man.”
That’s when the magnitude of what she was saying hit Jellwagger, not about the origins of the firm, but about her marriage. If her friends had really been his friends, then that meant she hadn’t had any friends since he passed away. He remembered Grant telling him over lunch a while back that Patrick Powell had passed away a couple decades ago.
Now Jellwagger turned and squinted at Powler with the same fascination which she had shown him when he talked about losing weight. This woman had probably never felt lonelier in her life than she did right after her husband passed away. Her kids had their own lives, her grandkids were doing things their way, and her job meant she was beyond the reach of most of the people in that firm. It was just natural for people to shy away from direct contact with the big guns. It didn’t matter one iota if Powler was the sweetest person on the planet or the meanest. She was the Big Cheese of Powell and Powler, LLP. She co-founded the damned place, on the third floor of this here building on Fifth and Flower. She’d been in the business since the parents of her colleagues hadn’t even been born yet. Who was left that she could relate to?
If his staring bugged her, she didn’t show it. Her eyes were fixed on that one floor, on that one window. Jellwagger turned back to it and tried feebly to appreciate what she must have been remembering.
“Thanks for coming to lunch with me,” she said. “Not once have you asked me why I wanted you to join me. And I know you weren’t doing that out of intimidation or anything but because you’re naturally tactful that way. I appreciate that. You’re not a whiner.”
“Wait, let me guess,” he said. “Can’t stand whiners.”
She smiled and looked at the sidewalk.
“Oh shit! That reminds me. Speaking of whiners…” He reached into his pocket for Carla’s gift. “Damn it, woman, all this awesome food and amazing memories, you made me forget why I had the balls to come to your office in the first place. A message from a whiner.” He pulled out the little flaming red package. Looking at it for the first time since meeting Powler, he was struck once again by the redness of the wrapping paper. Before, it had reminded him of Carla’s hair. But forget that. This shade of redness was far more similar to Powler’s mane. “She might call herself an admirer of yours, but then again, she and I have never really seen eye to eye on very much. The fact that I’ve already revealed her gender sort of breaks the rules right there. She wants to remain anonymous.”
Powler took the gift and turned it over a couple times, feeling it with both hands.
“You know what it is?” he asked.
She looked up at the building while gently probing the giftwrap. After a good minute or so, Powler sighed contentedly and slid the package into her pocket. “Back to the mines, Jellwagger.”
He watched her march down Flower to the corner of Sixth. Just as when they left the office, Jellwagger couldn’t bring himself to move because he couldn’t quite make sense of everything. Instead of leaving him behind this time, Powler stopped and turned with her fists on her hips. She smiled at him.
“Thanks for the lunch, Ms. Powler,” he said when he caught up.
She grunted a laugh. “Call me Roz.”
To be continued...
